


Aftershocks

by gadgetsandgizmos



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950's, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Suicide, Based on Pleasantville, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Smut, choni main relationship, the Serpents are the coolest gang around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-11-13 12:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18031664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gadgetsandgizmos/pseuds/gadgetsandgizmos
Summary: Set during/after Riverdale 1x13.Cheryl Blossom has had enough with grieving, so she makes the fateful journey to Sweetwater River, hopeful that she'll be reunited with her brother at long last. However, the universe has other plans, and so our heroine awakes in the Riverdale of long past, a life from another time. The year is 1954 - poodle skirts, saddle shoes, switchblades, and leather jackets set the stage for a whirlwind romance of epic proportions. Toni Topaz and Jughead Jones are the undisputed leaders of the Southside Serpents, and Cheryl Blossom finds herself in the middle of a turf war between the North and South siders. How will her memories and savvy from the modern world save her and her friends while she's trying to navigate the battlefield of her own, potent love story?Cheryl Blossom/Toni Topaz are the main couple of this story, all others are implied and explored briefly. The premise is loosely based on "Pleasantville".





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, gentle readers. 
> 
> I've had this little nugget of a story in my brain for some time. If you haven't seen the movie I pulled the idea from ("Pleasantville"), don't fret. It's a very loose interpretation, mostly because Cheryl and Toni are far too gorgeous to depict in anything less than flawless technicolor. There's no weird sitcom, either. This story will deal with some adult themes: suicide, self-harm, underage drinking/drug use, sexuality, teenage pregnancy, racism, homophobia, and a few others, so tread carefully. Anything major will have a content warning at the beginning. I will explore some of the main, core couples of the show, but not in detail. All smut will be Choni, as they are the main couple I intend to play with in this one. I'm taking a few liberties with the characters we know and love to put them in a setting that has always been a favorite of mine: the idyllic 1950's. 
> 
> Thank you for reviews, likes, kudos, and comments. I sincerely hope you all enjoy the ride.

 

_Where are you going?_

……

_To be with Jason._

Grief was such an ugly, pedantic emotion. It was for sniveling commoners, for the less fortunate, because anyone who knew the Blossom family knew they had an uncanny way of coming out on top; one might say they were even skilled in escaping death itself. Yet, there were no shortage of funerals for the maple syrup moguls, not lately. The shadow that had been cast over Riverdale – murder, deceit, trickery, suicide – it was too much to keep in the rear view mirror. All their attempts at carefully crafted damage control were calculated, but the application somehow never stuck.

 

After Jason Blossom’s death, the whispers crept all the way to Thornhill Mansion like a dense fog. It was stagnant, putrid as their family’s deep, dark secrets. Perhaps they were not as untouchable as the others all thought – perhaps they _were_ mortal, after all. Their blood was as red as the burning embers that perched atop their heads like a warning sign to anyone who dared cross them. Cheryl Blossom did her best to keep her head high, to square her shoulders and douse the fire with ice in her veins, keep herself steeled and poised; dignified, even when the world was reduced to ashes around her. Her reply was simple: she had a more acidic tongue than usual and used it as a scythe to cut the people who _dared_ mention her beloved brother’s name and those horrible rumors down like wheat.

 

Until she couldn’t escape those, either.

 

When Betty Cooper – her dear, meddling cousin – and Jughead Jones unearthed the truth behind Jason’s death with their little gang of do-gooders, she felt her last shreds of dignity torn from her like a child’s security blanket. She understood the intention behind it; after all, what wouldn’t she do to save her own family? Jughead wanted to clear FP’s name, and his own familial pride gave him the wherewithal to do whatever it took, no matter the cost. That fact didn’t ease her heartache or make Cheryl sleep better at night. It didn’t make anything easier. It didn’t stop the bile from rising in the redhead’s throat whenever she saw someone – one of the _lesser_ students who attended her school look at her with pity.

 

Because pity was even more than grief. It was an insult, it was a threat, and it was enough to pull at the last shreds that kept Cheryl Blossom together like the carefully woven tapestry of refinement and tenacity she had always been: a _Blossom,_ through and through. They hadn’t prepared her for this, hadn’t taught her how to retain diplomacy when everything they had built, every stone of their empire and every ounce of superiority came crumbling down like the fabled walls of Jericho.

 

Cheryl Blossom, who had previously lived her life in a limitless fashion, throwing caution to the wind and sky and damning anyone who tried to stop her, had enough. She had hit rock bottom. It was all too much.

 

And so, she succumbed to her grief. Her miserable, _human_ grief.

 

Jason was her everything.

 

Her surname was her identity and her legacy, but within that mantle, they were two against the world.

 

Since they were red-faced infants, watching the world around them with amber-colored eyes that held so much wisdom despite the fact that they were still too young to understand anything the world had to offer, much less the world they were born into, they were inseparable. Jason and Cheryl’s first word was the same: _mine_. Nobody knew if it was influenced by the other, and when asked a few years down the road, both children feigned innocence, a sure sign that neither would ever tell. They shared many secrets, _all_ of the other’s secrets, and it was when Jason stopped telling Cheryl his secrets that a path was cleared for his demise.

 

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to hate him, but from the second Sheriff Keller’s men pulled his cold, lifeless body from Sweetwater River, there was only one thing Cheryl truly desired. She wanted to be with her brother again. She wanted to see her JJ’s smile, hear his laugh, shrug her shoulders at his teasing antics, and sob in his arms when the world got to be too much, when their crowns became too heavy to wear.

 

Cheryl was dressed like a bride-to-be at an elaborate wedding as she made her way down to banks of Sweetwater River. Her hair spilled fire down her shoulders and she shivered, feeling the icy mist sting her skin as she tentatively placed a foot onto the thin ice and made her way toward the middle. The cold didn’t bother her, she’d been cold since the day she felt Jason’s life slip away, before she even knew her brother was gone. Twins knew, instinctively, she surmised. They’d taken their first breaths so close to one another, they had shared a womb; if anything, she felt the sting of guilt in her heart more than anything, more than the frozen earth and ice around her because she’d kept him waiting this long for her return. She had a reputation of being fashionably late, but she hated keeping Jason waiting. Now, now she knew he had to be in Heaven, watching down on her, waiting for her to join him so they could spend the rest of eternity together, as they’d always planned.

 

There was no point in living without him.

 

And so, she’d attend her own icy funeral while the heavens watched and the angels wept, but she knew somewhere, her brother was smiling with an arm outstretched. She could hear his whispered promises on the breeze: _“It’s okay, sis, I’ve got you.”_

Cheryl gave a sigh and turned her eyes skyward, feeling the chill burn as teardrops threatened to fall down ivory cheeks. She’d spent so many tears, it was a relief to know she’d never cry again. She’d be at peace. Finally. She’d be home again. Born again, with Jason. The rumbling of ice creaking beneath her feet snapped her to attention. There was a flicker of concern, regret, even fear that panged through her like the hunger they both had once had to survive. Her family were natural-born survivors, unafraid to use others as stepping stones to achieve their desired outcome, and they were ruthless in getting what they wanted. Now, Cheryl thought, it was more rewarding to find sweet relief in letting go, in breathing her last where Jason would have been buried if they hadn’t pulled his body out.

 

She wondered if Sheriff Keller would find her body, too.

 

Would Riverdale mourn her as they mourned her brother?

 

The ice creaked again, louder this time, and Cheryl felt it bow beneath her feet. The water bellowed below, a deep, tremulous roar and then there was pitch blackness enveloping her and pulling her body all the way to the bottom of Sweetwater River.  

 

Forgiveness.

 

Home.

 

Peace.

 

Silence.


	2. Breakfast of Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so everyone can have a general idea about how I intend to update: I'll likely have at least one chapter a week, if not two. This story will be a bit on the longer side - there's much ground to cover - but I'm not certain as to how many chapters yet. For those of you who already left kudos and comments, thank you very kindly. I do hope this chapter is satisfactory, even if we're not quite into the good stuff yet. Much exposition, I'm afraid. Even so, your comments, subscriptions, and the like really do fuel my muse and interest. I'm dipping my toes into the water here, with this fandom and pairing, and I'd rather like to stay a while. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this next installment.

Cheryl woke with sunshine blinding her and a dull ache in her chest. She gasped, remembering the feel of icy currents pulling her down, of dead weight sinking like a stone because she was gone. Dead. Or so she thought, because there she was, and the birds were singing saccharine tunes of good mornings and good days to come. There was a rich, buttery scent of maple wafting through the air, into a room she did not immediately recognize. Then, after a few seconds of rubbing her eyes, she realized that she didn’t recognize this bedroom at all. Gone was her canopy bed with the rich, red silk sheets that were the absolute best money could buy. Gone was the heady scent of Thornhill Mansion, with its clove and cedar hints that permeated every inch of the palatial crypt.

 

Here, she slept on modest sheets. They were clean and a light, lemon-yellow, and smelled of fresh linen. The thread count was decent, but she’d slept on more luxurious hotel sheets. Cheryl wrinkled her nose. Her stomach rumbled; whatever was cooking sure did smell incredible, but she hadn’t been treated to a homecooked meal by her mother for as long as she could remember; likely, Cheryl thought, she had gone her whole life without. That’s what they paid the help to do; clean the linens, feed the children, keep the mansion impeccably clean, and not ask questions. The redhead rested a hand on her chest, feeling the steady cadence of her heartbeat – still strong, she thought, but broken – and realized that there was a chance she was still alive after all.

 

She couldn’t help but feel disappointed; Cheryl Blossom did not fail at anything she set her mind to, and she had been damn determined to take her own life. How could she be so inept? Sweetwater River, frozen over and treacherous, had seemed like such a sure thing. Not only was it poetic, a fitting end to a tragic tale that would surely haunt future generations to come, but it was only logical. People didn’t exactly flock to Sweetwater River once it had frozen over; there wouldn’t be any reason for them to think she’d head there alone, and even her cryptic message about joining her brother was steeped in just enough melodramatic flair that people likely wouldn’t be suspicious as to her true intentions; not even if they cared enough about her potentially being a threat to her own life, which she guessed they didn’t. Cheryl had done quite well for herself in alienating people after Jason’s death – she had longed to be alone, relished in her grief, and had kept firm to her bitterness as it sank deep to the roots of her own miserable existence.

 

“Cheryl, breakfast is ready!”

 

A familiar female voice hit her ears and jogged Cheryl’s memory of the faintest recognition. It wasn’t her mother calling her, but the person was calling _her_ all the same. The wheels turned as she cycled through samples of every immediate female that came to mind before it settled, stopped in its cyclical perusal of facts and memories to find a sure match. Alice Cooper? This wasn’t the Coopers’ house. Or, at least, not as far as she could remember. Cheryl and Betty hadn’t been really close, and their families weren’t what she would classify as fond of one another. She and Betty hadn’t been sworn enemies, predisposed to bad blood, and then there was that illicit relationship between Jason and Polly, one that had led to _children_ and so how could they hate one another, really? They were family, and she had a different view of it than her parents by some incredible margin, because she thought it was something to be cherished. Respected. There were instances where one could, of course, turn one’s back on family, but it was reserved only in the direst of situations. Maybe this was Alice Cooper’s attempt at showing her a kindness, remembering that they were set to be kin in a whole new way once Polly gave birth to her own set of twins. Not to mention, everyone in Riverdale knew of Penelope’s treatment of her, and she was such a poor, pitiful thing these days. A shell of her old self.

 

Cheryl pulled back the duvet and smoothed hands over a matching, light pink pajama set. The shirt had long sleeves and buttoned down past her navel, the pants were a size too large and hung off her slim waist. The entire outfit was _far_ more modest than she had ever been in her entire life. The redhead huffed, looking around the room for other things she could find to ground herself, give her some semblance of memories to jog hers. She saw a vanity, albeit not hers nor Betty’s from what she remembered of her cousin’s room and personal space. There were no photographs of anyone anywhere, no posters on the walls, only basic furniture, a desk with a writing pad on top and a few neatly sharpened pencils. There was a bookbag that looked to be hand-embroidered with the Riverdale High insignia. Cheryl stood up out of bed and made her way past the desk to the closet, which she opened gingerly, gasping when she saw the contents.

 

_Poodle skirts? Cardigans?_

_No Vixens uniform?_

The redhead sifted through all her clothes, finding shiny saddle shoes – at least four pairs – on a shoe rack near the bottom. Tucked beside it was a small chest of what she imagined were likely some form of lame collectibles or antiques, surely not hers, and finally toward the back was a cheerleading uniform that looked like it had come out of the ‘50s. But then, the entire wardrobe did.

 

Who would _dare_ play such inconsiderate jokes on her by removing her from her comfortable, expensive lifestyle and subjecting her to this torment so soon after she’d tried to kill herself? So soon after the loss of her brother?

 

Surely there was an explanation for this, she thought as she stomped downstairs, making as much noise on the carpeted pathway as her slim frame possibly could.

 

It was easy enough to find the kitchen; most mid-century homes like the one she was stationed in had it as something of a centerpiece, usually just off the living room or family area, if there was a formal living room/dining area as this one seemed to feature. Even though everything was spotless, it still seemed functional and lived in, like a real family called it home. There was a large table just off the kitchen and seated there was none other than Betty Cooper, but as Cheryl blinked and looked closer, there was something off about Betty as well.

 

The blonde was digging into a hearty stack of what appeared to be homemade pancakes, adding a slice of ham and a few strips of bacon to her plate before taking a sip from a tall glass of orange juice. The table was positively _covered_ in food, enough to feed a small army. There was a fruit plate, a huge plate of pancakes, three different kinds of breakfast meat, a whole stick of butter, jam, toast, a pitcher of orange juice, a pot of coffee, and Hal Cooper seated at the head of the table, drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper. As if on cue, Alice Cooper came swirling into the dining area with a new place setting and tilted her head in Cheryl’s direction.

 

“Why, Cheryl, dear – you aren’t dressed,” she remarked. “You and Betty will be off to school soon, and you certainly can’t leave the house like that.”

 

“I can’t very well wear what it’s my closet, Mrs. Cooper.”

 

The elder blonde woman’s face fell.

 

“Cheryl, I know it’s… an inconvenience to not have all of your things here with you, but Hal and I have done our best to make a home for you here. Somewhere you’ll feel… safe, comfortable, like you’re part of the family. We want you to feel like you belong here, dear. Now please, I’ll feel dreadful if you don’t leave my house with a proper breakfast,” she responded, turning her frown upside down with a quickness that bordered on enough to give the redhead whiplash.

 

“Mother’s pancakes are the best in Riverdale,” Betty said, greeting her cousin with a friendly smile. It was then that Cheryl really _looked_ at her cousin. The blonde had a high ponytail that was affixed to her head with a bright blue ribbon. Her pristine white skirt was tucked into a light blue poodle skirt, much like the ones Cheryl had seen in her closet, and a matching blue cardigan covered her shoulders. “And if you need different clothes, Father has said he’ll take us to the dress shop this weekend. I hope sharing with me is all right for now. We’re basically the same size.”

 

“We did get your cheerleading uniform from Thornhill. It’s not much, but it’s something to ground you, we hope, without bringing up too many unpleasant memories,” Alice replied, ushering her into a seat next to Betty and immediately loading up her plates with pancakes and ham.

 

“I’m a vegan,” Cheryl said, turning up her nose.

 

“A what?”

 

Hal Cooper looked up from his newspaper, meeting her with steely eyes that seemed to hide secrets – it was a look she was used to seeing, and even so, he didn’t appear to regard her with any sort of unkindness. Those were likely his own demons she saw being kept at bay.

 

“A vegan,” Cheryl stated, “it’s where you…”

 

“Hal, let’s not bombard the poor girl with questions she isn’t quite prepared to answer. We know all about her… _differences_ and we accept them anyway. She’s family. Remember?” Alice’s tone was still pleasant but held an edge around the end of her syllables. It was clear that she didn’t approve of her husband heading down whatever path he was thinking of traversing, but the redhead didn’t understand why a dietary choice to not consume animal products would be so scandalous that it required such an advanced level of “hush-hush.”

 

“Do you want orange juice? It’s fresh-squeezed.” Betty passed the pitcher to Cheryl, who nodded and poured herself a glass. “I thought it might be nice for us to walk to school together today, if you wanted. A good walk in the morning always clears my head and gets me ready for a proper day of learning.”

 

“But she won’t be learning much on an empty stomach, dear,” Alice said, gesturing again toward Cheryl’s plate. “Please, dear. You’ll break my heart if you don’t at least try a pancake.”

 

Cheryl gave Alice a closed-mouth smile, then lowered her eyes to the massive stack of pancakes on her plate. Even though she’d kept a specific diet for years, she hadn’t thought much of her body’s needs when she’d all but tossed herself into the river, so what harm would it do to appease someone who was trying to be such a good hostess? Even if it was curious, the entire situation she’d found herself in, she knew these people. Or, at least, she thought she did.

 

After an awkward breakfast, Cheryl went upstairs and dressed for school, choosing to forego a lengthy bath and rather just cleaned up quickly, knowing that there would be time to luxuriate later, when she’d made sense of the day and pieced together some of the questions that continued to linger within her head. Betty greeted her downstairs when she was dressed almost identically to her cousin, though the redhead opted for a red skirt and black cardigan over her white button-down blouse. It was the closest thing to her that she could find; it wasn’t anything she would have thought she’d see herself heading toward school in, but there wasn’t another option. Betty didn’t typically dress like someone from _Leave it to Beaver_ and those other God-awful ‘50s sitcoms, but when in Rome, she supposed.

 

“I hope you don’t mind, Cheryl, but I told Archie he could accompany us.”

 

“Archie Andrews? I would think he’s too busy fawning over Veronica to be free to be our escort,” Cheryl said.

 

“Veronica Lodge?” Betty said, her words thick with awe. “Why would Archie be spending his time with her?” The blonde’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Her family are _criminals_ , and Mr. and Mrs. Andrews would _never_ \----”

 

“Mr. _and_ Mrs.?”

 

“Of course! They’re good people, the Andrews. Certainly not the sort to have any part in whatever Hiram Lodge is doing in our wonderful community,” Betty continued. “My father always says that evil has a way of finding us in Riverdale, but it never lasts. The town with pep is founded by lionhearted, proud, honest citizens. We’ll overcome.”

 

Cheryl raised an eyebrow and nodded.

 

“Well, isn’t that charming?”

 

“That’s why we took you in,” Betty continued. “My mother knows you have a good heart, despite all those awful accusations. And even if they are true, Cheryl, we just… we just don’t speak of those things, but we don’t mind them, you know?”

 

“Accusations?”

 

Her family had been entrenched in scandals since the day she was born. Cheryl had cut her teeth on them. She just didn’t know which one Betty was referencing.

 

“Precisely,” Betty said with a broad smile and quick nod. “Overcome.”

 

“Of course,” Cheryl grumbled. That certainly didn’t make her any wiser. As they made their way out of Betty’s house, Cheryl looked around the streets that she thought she knew like the back of her hand. The lawns were all pristine, a lush verdant that spoke to citizens who not only took care, but pride in their appearances. A few cars drove down the roads, but not nearly as many as usual, especially for a school day, and when Cheryl actually stopped to take a look at them, she started to see a pattern.

 

Bel-Air, Coup DeVille, they were all classic cars. Vintage cars. _Old_ vintage cars.

 

“Betty, dearest. May I inquire as to one question that will likely have you thinking I’ve gone mad?” Cheryl asked, her mouth slightly agape as everything around her started to click, and not in a good way. “Just one question, and we’ll forget all about it once the school day begins.”

 

“Certainly, Cheryl. I’m sure you’ve got a few, after everything that’s happened.”

 

“Oh, I’d say that’s a dreadful understatement. Right now, however, I’ve just the one,” Cheryl said, then gulped. She paused. “Betty, what _year_ is it?”

 

The blonde giggled, then looked at her, concern flickering in her eyes for a moment. But, Cheryl thought, just a moment because she had asked for the blonde to reserve judgment.

 

“It’s 1954. Am I allowed to ask why?”

 

“Only if you can absolutely keep a secret,” the redhead said, immediately questioning her own sanity along with her potentially poor choice to trust Betty Cooper.

 

“I swear. On my honor as a Riverdale Lady.” Betty gave some sort of odd salute, and Cheryl sighed.

 

They’d put her in an institution for sure.

 

Maybe she belonged there.

 

“It appears, sweet cousin, that I’ve somehow managed to travel back in time.”


	3. What a Wonderful World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, faithful readers - here's another chapter. 
> 
> We're getting a bit into the meat of the story now, a little more into this world Cheryl has found herself in. It's a bit light on the fun stuff (romance, smut, drama, etc), but it'll get going. Thank you so much for the kudos and comments thus far; it's so lovely to know people are enjoying this story. I'm having an absolute blast writing it. As always, I welcome your feedback - I'm sort of writing this story a bit spontaneously, so there's room to steer a bit as we make our journey. If you guys are loving something specific, please let me know. I'll try to include more of it, just for you. <3

“I’m sorry, but am I correct to assume that you think _committing suicide_ brought you here, to the past?”

 

Betty’s question wasn’t totally unrealistic. The entire thing, Cheryl knew, seemed positively insane. In fact, if it hadn’t already seemed like her mother had once tried to have her committed, she might be up for a second round at the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. The Coopers had taken her in, _Betty_ had done seemingly everything to make her feel comfortable and at home, like she could have a chance at a real family dynamic, a chance to be normal. She’d never felt normal living in Thornhill Mansion, constantly under her mother’s hateful, ever-watchful eye. Cheryl couldn’t speak for whatever iteration of Cheryl Blossom lived in 1954 Riverdale, but she knew how she felt at present, and it had been too much to bear living any longer. That’s how she came to the river, and then… somewhere else entirely.

 

“I mean, this entire world could very well be some afterlife conjuration of, I don’t know, Betty… it doesn’t quite seem like Hell, nor really Heaven. Purgatory?” Cheryl’s mind raced to conclusions, and while she operated at a breakneck speed, the redhead found none. However, she was banking on the knowledge that Betty Cooper in her world was something of a prodigious Nancy Drew, and so maybe she could garner the same abilities in this life, in any life, or perhaps the mere suggestion might be enough to trigger something if indeed this whole world was really just some figment of Cheryl’s deceased, subconscious mind.

 

“I don’t enjoy thinking that everything I’ve ever known is just your version of Purgatory. That’s a dreadful thought,” the blonde sighed, obviously morose at the entire conversation. Still, when Cheryl’s eyes caught her cousin’s baby blues, she saw a glimmer of something, of intrigue or perhaps the sheer determination to prove that her world wasn’t some fever dream or make-believe. Betty wanted proof that she actually was _real_ as she seemed to be in that moment while the two teenagers tried to suss out anything sensible.

 

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter,” Cheryl said. “I’m here now, for _however_ long, it seems. Perhaps it’s a second chance.”

 

“It makes me wonder what happened to the Cheryl in this world,” Betty mused quietly. “Are you two the same person now? Do you… do you have any memories that don’t seem like your own?”

 

Cheryl paused, musing over that same thought for a brief moment’s pause.

 

“Not that I know, but Betty,” Cheryl began, trying to collect her words so she knew exactly how to proceed with her cousin. “Can we agree not to tell anyone, and I do mean _anyone_ about this? I would very much like for this to be a secret kept between just us girls. You’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you?”

 

The blonde nodded, though the redhead suspected that her cousin was struggling, likely with some moral aspect, or maybe even the notion itself, like she had some sworn duty to tell the adults in her life what was happening so they could assist in making sense of it all. No, there were some things that the adults just couldn’t grasp, and Cheryl knew from her time dealing with the adults of Riverdale in her own world, her own time, that they frequently did more harm than good. Half of Riverdale’s major problems could be attributed to some shortcoming on the part of an overzealous adult, someone who had reached beyond their means or attempted some form of conquest meant to serve a selfish agenda.

 

“I promise, Cheryl. And I’ll help you!”

 

The cheer in her cousin’s words was not lost on Cheryl. If anything, it gave the Blossom heiress more reason to trust, to feel safe in telling Betty Cooper one of her secrets.

 

“Help me? Help me with what, precisely?”

 

“If you’re from so far in the future, it might be hard for you to adjust to how things work around here, the who’s who and the town buzz of it all,” Betty explained. “I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you because you’re not _our_ Cheryl.”

 

The redhead scoffed; a perfectly manicured brow arched to the Heavens when she looked back toward her cousin.

 

“I’m not worried about any of these milquetoast simpletons taking advantage of me. My world is… harder, Betty. It’s different. So very different. In fact, if I’m to be greeted by a cornucopia of breakfast foods and home-cooked meals every day and that’s the harshest adjustment, I’d say coming here is something akin to a long overdue vacation.”

 

“You’d be surprised, Cheryl. Riverdale isn’t without its troubles or its demons,” Betty replied.

 

“I know a thing or two about demons, Cheryl. I saw the worst of them just a few months ago. I know how horrid humanity can be, how devious and uncaring. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the Firestarter here – I’m always in the mood for a little hell raising.”

 

“Still, let me help,” Betty said, her eyes pleading with Cheryl. She so desperately wanted to be useful, to be a paragon of good that kept the weight of the world on her shoulders. It was almost comforting to see how time couldn’t change some things. “Please? I promise you won’t regret it.”

 

Cheryl held her hands up, a concession that was exhaled on a deep, belly sigh.

 

“All right, cousin. I suppose I can find some use for you. Now, give me the run down on our favorite cast of characters, _s’il vous plait_ , so I can be ready for my first day of school.”

 

* * *

 

Cheryl Blossom walked down the middle of the hallway at Riverdale High School like it was a runway in Paris. Her red hair flowed over her shoulders in thick, loose waves, cascading in a way that wasn’t entirely in vogue for the time period, but made her feel like herself despite the ridiculous outfit she wore. She still wasn’t certain what had transpired, but as she made her way toward her locker – which was the same as in her time, she discovered, as was her class schedule and everything else – she noticed that the faces that passed her were no different than she remembered. The fashion had changed, the mannerisms, too, but they were the same people.

 

They were living different lives here, but they were still all the same.

 

Cheryl opened her locker and grabbed books for the first three periods: Algebra, World History (how different would _that_ be), and Home Economics, which was called Consumer Science in the modern world. Cheryl expected to have a laugh in that class, which Betty had described to her on their walk in; it seemed to be almost like one would think of old-fashioned cotillion: aka, how to cook meals for your ungrateful husband and children 101. Cheryl didn’t need grooming, she was a _Blossom_ , and if there ever was to be a marriage in her future, it would likely be arranged, especially in this time. But since Mommy Dearest seemed to have no claim to her here, at least not anymore, Cheryl thought it might behoove her to pay attention in such a ridiculous class; it would be an easy A, at the very least, though she would have to hold back her tongue when they tried to teach her how to hem pants and do other emotional labor that was still considered to be “women’s work.”

 

Perhaps she had a thing or two to teach the women of this time.

 

Perhaps that could be her pet project, so long as she didn’t make too many waves or ruffle the wrong feathers. Cheryl did enjoy a good pet project.

 

Armed with the knowledge Betty gave her, Cheryl felt empowered, completely ready to handle whatever curveball came her way next. She had never been the sporting sort unless you counted equestrian events or archery, but she understood that knowledge was power and knew that Blossoms had an intense relationship with power; she couldn’t escape the longings of her blood that pulled like a moonlit tide, and while there were many unsavory aspects that went hand-in-hand with her familial identity, it was a part of herself that the redhead never tried to hide. In more than a few instances, it was useful. Sometimes, it was even her saving grace. Cheryl hoped it would be the latter here.

 

Moose Mason gave her a knowing smile and Reggie Mantle winked at her; Cheryl felt her body recoil – Betty had explained her role, so to speak, in this world. Her mother had put her away because of certain… _proclivities_ that her family just couldn’t condone. Apparently, her Nana Rose had been the only one in her family to fight for her, and that was heartbreaking. The rest had turned their back, and she shouldn’t have shed a tear except for the knowledge that her beloved twin – her darling, dearest brother – had chosen to toe the family line. His inheritance, Betty said, was at risk.

 

And for what? The fear that Cheryl, who was already something of the black sheep in her family, might be homosexual? That certainly wasn’t the case, at least not in her world. She liked men and had always liked men. She just didn’t actively pursue them because, well… there were a number of reasons. Solid reasons. Reasons she couldn’t bring to the forefront of her mind, no matter how hard she tried, but she knew they were there.

 

The sound of a locker slamming just two away from her own broke Cheryl out of her thoughts.

 

“Move. Don’t make me ask again,” a deep voice commanded. She should have felt bad for the Bulldog whose name she couldn’t quite recall, but after she saw a green flash on a shiny, black leather jacket, she remembered that one didn’t make any moves toward questioning the Serpents here. They were allowed to attend Riverdale high because FP Jones had made a deal with Principal Weatherbee; for the most part, Betty said they ended up dropping out anyway. But the more studious amongst them, including FP’s son Jughead, stayed around. Typically, they didn’t bother anyone. Betty said the Serpents were tangled more in illegal street racing and the procurement of various illegal items that they shuffled through Riverdale to the sketchier towns on either side, but not much more. It was intimidation tactics to keep up their reputation as the baddest around – showmanship, really. Cheryl could appreciate a good front and the potency of well-placed scare tactics, but she had already been warned to steer completely clear by her cousin. The tall, built young man in the Serpent jacket was flanked by a smaller, distinctively female form. Her hair was down in ringlets with streaks of – oh, was that _pink_ in her hair? How positively scandalous. She had to be positively out of place, not to mention out of era.

 

And yet, Cheryl was captivated. She felt a rush of blood go all the way from her chest to her face and her pale complexion flushed all the way down to her toes. Suddenly, the room was on fire. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t recognize that Serpent from her world, not that she was friendly with the Serpents in any time period.

 

The young woman was someone Cheryl knew she could never forget.

 

“What are you staring at, Red?”

 

Cheryl gulped. The brunette male was leering at her, first with irritation and then as his eyes scanned lower, and even lower, with approval.

 

“S’okay, Sweet Pea. She’s not gonna cause us any trouble,” the female said. “Let’s skedaddle.”

 

The two figures passed her a little too close for comfort causing Cheryl’s back to instinctively fall flesh against the cool metal of her locker. The brunette gave her a soft smile, and their eyes met and held, a few seconds longer than what was proper, especially for two strangers. Two female strangers. Cheryl blushed even harder and she willed herself to look away, but her eyes were traitors. They never left the lady Serpent’s retreating figure until she was completely out of sight.

 

Maybe there was some truth to her mother’s fears, after all.

 

What a wonderful world.


	4. An Open Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! 
> 
> I love you guys and I'll start to update more frequently, I swear. Also, if you feel like you wanna try something else I've written, check out 'Hurricane Blossom' - it's super different than this one, but I love writing it just the same. 
> 
> Here's a bit of Choni goodness to apologize for the wait. 
> 
> You seriously don't want to know how much time I've spent researching 1950's slang and trying to use it in the strange, Riverdale way of dialoguing. Really, you don't. Please enjoy.

Books.

 

Cheryl had never been a stranger to books, nor to libraries. The fact that she’d traveled back in time – or so it seemed she had, at least – had done nothing to stifle her studious nature. In truth, the characters in stories she’d read as a child had been some of her closest friends; being a Blossom was synonymous with loneliness in many ways. Cheryl had Jason, and it had been the two of them against the world, but their patriarchal ways had left her father to take JJ from her in increasing amounts because he was the heir. He was being groomed, she knew, and that was a world she wasn’t allowed to be part of; not entirely, at least. The ‘boys’ club’ of Blossom power and societal worth would pass along to her sons, one day, when she found a suitable marriage and it was time to further the line. Jason’s children would also have stock and funds, and probably still more than her and hers because she wasn’t enough for Clifford Blossom and his long line of misogynistic male relatives that were all likely stuffy even in death. Jason was different – he loved her, and that spoke volumes more than either her father or mother ever had, because she knew his love was genuine. Her parents, when they said they loved her, it was with smiles that never quite met their eyes or in the presence of esteemed company; they had to keep up appearances. They had a reputation to uphold.

 

Betty had told her to go to the library to find more books for her classes when they were no longer tethered to one another because Cheryl needed a safety net. Cousin Betty would be there for her, she knew, if there was a need – and there certainly would be, as she wasn’t anywhere near fully prepared for what this world and this time would throw at her – but she also felt a nagging urge to gain her own independence and suss out the ‘what may come’ of it all for herself.

 

Libraries were safe.

 

She could put her nose in a book, do a little digging, and disappear into the woodwork like the wallflower she had tried to be in her early adolescence before puberty hit her like a train and decorum demanded she take the mantle of a Blossom beside Jason, who was taking to esteemed popularity more and more like a duck to water with every passing day starting their freshman year of high school. He would rule Riverdale High because it was what was expected, and she would do the same. Cheryl would be by his side, even if she had to play second-fiddle to Polly Cooper, his doe-eyed beloved, once their romance took root in absolute secret. They looked out for one another, as they always had. But here… here, she didn’t have JJ’s charismatic wing to shelter her, nor his voracious approval that guaranteed her an ‘in.’ Here, she barely knew the social standings and graces, though so many faces looked familiar.

 

Even Cousin Betty wasn’t her cousin here.

 

They were shades of themselves, aspects of people she knew in another life. There were parts of the Betty she remembered, glimmers of a kind heart and underlying traits of ambitious curiosity that made her feel almost at home.

 

Cheryl could be whoever she wanted to be here. Perhaps she’d have to do some digging on her own to see if she could pinpoint what was expected of her in this reality, but for the most part, she decided she was just going to play with the current cards in her deck and let the chips fall where they may.

 

If this was some sort of a second chance, she was damn sure about to take it and make it worth every new, blessed minute.

 

The smell of patina and old paper overwhelmed the redhead’s senses as she made her way into the wide, open space that had sturdy, oak shelving almost to the ceilings. This library wasn’t littered with computers like the high school she called her own. Instead, it was quaint, with larger books of reference serving as a directory scattered in every end cap. A regal, ornate desk sat right in the middle of where all the shelves left a circular space so the librarian could survey her kingdom.

 

Cheryl made her way to the center and found the elderly woman, spectacled in a way that suited the old, classic librarian stereotype. Her blue eyes were cloudy, but still held a knowledge and sharpness within them as she regarded Cheryl closely, perhaps with a bit of wariness to them. The redhead tempered her tone appropriately and leaned into the desk, neatly manicured nails skimming the lacquered surface with their blunt edges as she adopted a conspiratorial whisper.

 

“My apologies, but I’m here to collect a few books for my classes. I realize it’s untimely, as they’re already underway, but I’m a bit behind, you see…”

 

“Never you mind, dearie. We all have our burdens to uphold. You more than most, I imagine,” the librarian replied, a soft smile taking the place of the previously housed expression. Cheryl felt the warmth carry through to her and fell a bit at ease.

 

“Thank you so much,” Cheryl sighed. She slid a paper – a list of books, in Betty’s handwriting – to the librarian across the desk. “It’s really such a relief.”

 

“I’m only doing my job,” the older woman replied. She took the list, adjusted her spectacles, and made notes accordingly after checking a few of the larger reference books behind her desk. Everything seemed to be perfectly organized; the filing was immaculate, and the librarian’s handwriting was tight cursive that reminded Cheryl of her Nana Rose. “Here you are, Miss Blossom. This should give you a good idea of where to start. Come find me if I can be of further assistance.”

 

“You are my savior,” Cheryl replied, clutching the list to her chest before making her way toward the shelves. The titles seemed outdated, but that was testament of the times. She’d always done particularly well in history, and the redhead wondered if that wouldn’t be to her advantage as she tried to regurgitate facts about ‘Modern Science’ that was decades-old in her classroom. Cheryl grabbed one of the baskets that were carefully placed near the start of several aisles and she started making stacks of her required materials. As she browsed for school, she also browsed for pleasure. Her fingertips traced a copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry collection, and she realized that it had been years since she’d allowed herself to read or write poetry and really indulge in it.

 

In fact, Cheryl was so lost in the swell of memories that washed over her like a riptide that she didn’t even see the flash of pink cross her vision as she turned an abrupt corner and dropped her basket – and its contents – all over the carpeted floor.

 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t---”

“Shit, sorry, I’m an oaf sometimes and---”

 

Hazel eyes locked on molten chocolate and two sets of full lips shared a smile.

 

“Hello again, Red.”

 

Cheryl’s heart began an elaborate tango in her chest. Her vision blurred and, for a moment, she thought she stopped breathing. Who was this girl?

 

“Do I know you?”

 

It was a lie, and not a very good one. They’d bumped into each other just hours ago.

 

“I’d say you do, since you’re keen on bowling me over every chance you get,” the pink-haired woman replied.

 

“Accidents, I assure you,” Cheryl said, trying to collect her ridiculous poodle skirt so she could kneel down to get her books. The other woman was wearing slightly cropped trousers, cut just above the ankles, and pin-straight. Cigarette pants, she thought they were called. Most of her female classmates she saw wore skirts, so that was another trend that set this beautiful stranger apart.

 

“Sure,” she replied, but in a low, smoky tone that was colored with humor and interest. Cheryl’s pulse sparked another series of staccato beats because she could listen to this woman talk all day, every day and never tire of it. Each word settled into the redhead’s porcelain skin and sank deep into the core of her, perhaps deep into her soul like she’d found something she’d been missing but hadn’t thought to search for in the first place. “Come here often?”

 

“Wouldn’t most students attend the library to further their educational experience?”

 

She was met with a laugh that was almost as attractive as the rest of the leather-clad enigma. Almost.

 

“I know you’re not new here, Red, because everyone knows who you are. But, I’ll play – you actin’ dumb for a reason? Kids barely come in here unless they’re lookin’ to try to make it in the shelves or they’ve got in hot water with their folks,” the woman replied.

 

“I like to read,” Cheryl said proudly, squirreling more of the books back into her basket and adding the last one she’d found – Dickinson, for nostalgia’s sake – right on top. “Do you not know how to read? Is that why you’re being so challenging?”

 

“Whoa, easy there, Blossom. Let’s retract the claws some. I don’t mean any harm,” she replied, then grabbed the top book Cheryl had just placed and ran her finger over the spine reverently, almost lovingly, then caught the redhead’s gaze again. “I actually just returned this one. Dickinson is one of my favorites. Don’t let on though, okay? I got a reputation.”

 

Well, if that didn’t sound hauntingly familiar. Cheryl could most certainly relate.

 

“You’re a Serpent.”

 

“Read the jacket, did ya?”

 

“I’m not afraid of you, if that’s what you’re hoping,” Cheryl retorted, moving to her knees before attempting to get up without tripping on the hemline of her skirt. The Serpent beat her to the movement in a flash and offered her hand and another smile. Cheryl found herself looking in both directions – a move she wasn’t proud of – before taking it and allowing herself to be whisked to her feet, basket and all.

 

“No? Not even a little bit?”

 

Cheryl swallowed. The Serpents weren’t without venom in her world – she’d always been protected, and Betty was in with Jughead, who was softer than one would expect a gangster and a son of FP Jones to be, though he did have his moments. Was she wrong to assume she’d be safe from them here, too?

 

“No. You said you know who I am, that everyone does. Don’t you think there’s a reason for that, Serpent?” Cheryl licked her lips daringly. “I’m a Blossom. We don’t fear.”

 

“Swell. ‘Cause me and mine, we’re not the type to get our kicks from hasslin’ dollies. And you take the cake, sugar.”

 

Was this girl… flirting with her?

 

And did she like it?

 

Cheryl cleared her throat and tossed a long section of her perfectly coiffed hair behind her shoulder, repositioning so that the basket was firmly between her and the Serpent.

 

“You’re over here throwing away those compliments on someone who doesn’t even know your name,” Cheryl said.

 

“Who says I’m throwing them away? Seems to me, if they fit the bill, I’ve got great aim.”

 

“You know my name, it only seems fair I should be equally acquainted.”

 

Neither woman blinked. Finally, the Serpent extended her hand and looked down, a clear question of whether or not Cheryl would take it.

 

“Toni Topaz,” she said. Cheryl remembered her manners, because even if she wasn’t sure about Toni Topaz, she hadn’t forgotten everything about her upbringing, nor the implications that could come of her being rude for no good reason, though in this situation, she couldn’t help but think she was doing the wrong thing by taking the pink-haired woman’s hand and giving it a firm shake that lingered when Toni traced a thumb over the back of Cheryl’s hand.

 

It might have been wrong, but it felt strangely… right.

 

“Is that your real name or your gangster name?”

 

Toni laughed again.

 

“You’re a gas, Bombshell.”

 

“Bombshell?”

 

“Well yeah…” Toni dropped their joined hands and rubbed the back of her neck. “Girl like you, classy chassis like that…” She whistled lowly. Cheryl’s face turned as red as her hair as she could feel those dark brown eyes rake over her like a physical caress.

 

“You’re brazen, Toni Topaz,” Cheryl said, swatting the woman away again. This kind of behavior not only wasn’t like her, but it went against everything she had been raised to do. It went against everything she knew, and these were not the times for… deviance.

 

“I’ve been called worse,” she said with a shrug. Cheryl wanted to ask her about the school, pick her brain for some of the questions she had because something told her that Toni was different, that she might understand or want to help, and she felt… comfortable, surprisingly enough, around the Serpent. When she was a kid, Jason had always made her feel like she was wrapped in a warm blanket on the coldest day, fully secured from the elements. She hadn’t felt like that – not for a second, not for anyone or anything – since he’d died.

 

Until now.

 

A sharp whistle – one that was wholly inappropriate for a library setting – stopped her in her tracks and she looked in the direction that the sound came from, noting that Toni did the same. Two men – the tall, slender one with shaggy hair she recognized from before – and a stockier, muscular one who could have easily been his brother, were leaning around the corner of the World History section.

 

“Tiny, Jug sent us to grab you ‘cause we got Ghoulies cruisin’ our turf,” the taller man said. “We gotta jet.”

 

“Ghoulies?” Cheryl asked.

 

“As much as I’d love to stay and chat, Princess, we’ll have to save this for another time,” Toni said. “I’ll catch you around.”

 

The responding wink set a shot straight to her core and Cheryl felt her palms start to sweat. How wholly unbecoming of a young lady, she knew, but there was just something about Toni Topaz that she couldn’t shake.

 

The fog that encircled her brain followed her all the way back to the desk with her books as she mused back over the conversation that had transpired at the breakfast table.

 

_Accusations._

_Differences._

_Exile._

Was she…?

 

Was 1950’s Cheryl…?

 

That morning, when she’d spoken with Betty she’d chalked many of the town’s whispers as nothing more than a bunch of bored, gossiping stooges. It didn’t seem far-fetched for her mother, in any time, to want to bring about her ruin somehow. A gilded, homophobic suggestion from a dulcet tongue could certainly be her undoing; but there seemed to be truth to it. Cheryl couldn’t deny how she felt, but was it her or was it this version of herself who felt the tug of true longing for impassioned, forbidden fruit?

 

A distinct shade of herself that seemed like it would be so different, but could it be that it was closer than any self she thought she already knew?

 

“Did you find everything you needed, dearie?”

 

“I may have just, thank you.”

 

Betty rounded the corner a second later and tilted her head sideways as she caught Cheryl with an armful of books.

 

“I’m glad you’re getting well acquainted with everything, Cheryl,” Betty said. “But you’ll have to tote those along – we’ve got cheer practice.”

 

Cheer practice.

 

Hopefully, it would be something else familiar – something that could get her head back on in its proper direction again.

 

“Swell,” Cheryl said, testing her tongue out on the new lingo. “But first, I’ve come across a few things that are… curious, to me. You don’t mind answering a few more questions, do you, Cousin?”


End file.
